


Some to Remember, Some to Forget

by meanoldauthor



Category: Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Dead Money, Gen, Horror
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2015-06-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:23:47
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,523
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4151607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meanoldauthor/pseuds/meanoldauthor
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Christine has remained in the Sierra Madre, its warden and sole sane inhabitant. But among the silent ghost people, she fears this may not last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

They’d caught someone, earlier that day.

She’d heard the screaming, from across the Villa. By the time she showed up, there was only a sticky red puddle under a bear trap and no signs of life. A trapper was knelt down to wrench the jaws open again. A harvester stood over it, watching. They both looked over as Christine sighed, leaning on her spear. “Took me long enough to get my voice back,” she said. “You could at least leave me someone to talk to.”

The ghost people went back to their work, disinterested. She didn’t exist to them. Not properly. She was part of their scenery, part of the Sierra Madre, and bore no further comment. Not that they _could_ comment, but…

The two had wandered off while her mind was on a tangent. Not for the first time, either. Christine propped the spear on her shoulder and followed. “Someday, I’ll at least figure out where you take them,” she said. The smaller harvester looked back at her, masked face alien and incurious. “And what happens after.” It faced forward again. “Are there more of you than there were? You guys have spare suits somewhere?”

There was a waft of sulfur and hot metal reek, and she stopped as they turned a corner and faded into the Cloud. “Because if you do, a mask would be nice…”

She waited, but the sound of their breathing faded, and all she could hear was the soft toll of the Campanas bell.

“Well.” She shrugged. “Nice seeing you.”  
—  
_D/E, C_

Christine concentrated hard on making the letters look right, finishing with an arrow under them. She considered it critically, wiping a bit of white paint off the lip of the can. Shaky and probably misshapen, but she was the only one to read them. _Dead end, Cloud._ It was all over the Madre now, her effort to map it coming to an end. She had found some interesting things as she explored, but many routes were impenetrable with concentrated Cloud filling them. “Someday,” she said, crimping the can lid down. “If only from boredom…”

There was a low hiss and wheeze from down the hall. She kept packing up her things, watching a pair of harvesters wandering her way, hunched and feral. She let them step around her rather than move. One of them watched her as it passed, the green of its eye lights almost pleasant amid the pervasive rust color of the Madre. It turned away, and she considered the paint on her hand.

“This is stupid,” she muttered. Matching her steps with its, she held her breath. Trying not to shove, she reached out to leave a smear on the ghost person’s back. She froze as it leapt away, rolling, coming back to its feet with its spear at the ready. The second dropped into a fighting crouch, looking frantically for what had startled its companion. Both were wheezing loudly, greenish vapor rising from the snouts of their masks. The first was leaning to look behind her, inching past.

Christine stood her ground, fascinated. She had spoken to them plenty, once the isolation had gotten bad enough, but never risked contact. She turned aside as it came closer, checking around the corner. It had been a long time since she’d seen them hunting, up close. The jerking, erratic way they moved wasn’t graceful by any measure, but there was still something captivating in it. “Same way you might call a Deathclaw pretty,” she said under her breath.

The harvester faced her, head tipping from side to side. The spear wavered. She tightened her grip on hers. She’d crossed a line, now, not behaving like a hologram. There was a plasma pistol in her pack for emergencies, if she could vaporize these two before they alerted the others…

It straightened before she could act, and she glanced down the hall. The second had wandered off, not seeing a threat. The marked harvester’s gaze shifted, checking behind her one last time before following.

Christine let out a long, low breath. “That was really, _really_ stupid.”

It had looked at her.

It had looked _at_ her. Not through, like they did the holograms. It had treated her like furniture, looking past and around her, but for a moment she was sure it had been considering, sizing her up.

She waited for her heart to stop racing before heading back to the hotel. It would be a while before she went exploring again.

\--

“…almost got a prototype working. The vending machines have been tough to hack, but I’ve gotten them to manufacture something that might work as a scrubber.” Christine turned over the rough mask on the workbench. “Can’t say I’m looking forward to a test run.”

She set the recorder down and held the mask up to her mouth, taking a deep breath. It clicked and hissed, but smelled so thoroughly of plastic she couldn’t tell if the traces of the Cloud were getting through. “Not sure, but I’ve got enough stimpaks on hand, I suppose. It’s been a few days since I was outside. If there was any fallout from the…incident, it’s probably gone now.”

The recorder shut off with a click. The ‘incident.’ A moment of complacency, forgetting how dangerous the ghost people were. She scoffed at herself. How perilous was her new life that smearing a bit of paint on someone—something—was worth holing up for days?

Christine stood and stretched, rolling her neck and trying to press the kinks out of her spine. Getting out would be better than sitting around the hotel suite she’d cleaned up. “But this time?” She hung a pair of goggles around her neck as she headed for the security area. “This time, you stay _out,_ ” she said, taking the plasma pistol from a locker.  
—  
She had blocked the ghost people out of the suites early on, back when they were hostile. They still showed up in the lower levels, and she tensed as she stepped into the lobby. She could hear them breathing down below, the noise of many dragging breaths echoing and overlapping, sounding almost like a whispering crowd. With her eyes closed, she could imagine awed guests gathered there, before the bombs fell…

Christine shook it away and edged to the railing, counting half a dozen of them milling around. There were a mix of weapons between them, a couple lanky seekers with gas bombs, and a burly trapper that rattled with chains. None noticed her, and she descended the stairs. She found herself checking the backs of the smaller spear-carrying harvesters, looking for a smear of paint, but there was none.

They ignored her as she passed between them and out the main doors. Her hand left the butt of the pistol. The dim reddish sunlight made her blink as her eyes adjusted, and she considered the map she’d drawn. There was a Cloud-blocked corridor not too far off. “Let’s see what you’ve got,” she said.

She pulled on the makeshift gasmask as she went. The buckles tangled in the short scrub of her hair, growing at odd angles around her scars, and she had to stop and pull it free. She turned it over in her hands, grumbling. As she tried to settle it more carefully, there was a shuffle and wheeze of a ghost person down the lane. It walked through the T-shaped junction ahead, and she caught a glimpse of its back, and a white smudge on it.

 _Kill it,_ was the first thought in her mind. Her hands left the mask, one resting on the plasma pistol. It was alone and isolated. _It’s getting wise to you. Kill it before it really realizes you’re flesh and blood._

But…no. It _was_ alone an isolated, and she’d already gone to the trouble of marking it. Christine went after the harvester, keeping her footsteps quiet. She could observe it a while longer, assess if it really was a threat, and put it down quietly if it was.

She tried to breathe lightly, but felt her head getting light by the time the harvester was back in sight. She gave up and took a deeper breath, making the mask give off an asthmatic noise. The ghost person twisted, arms swinging. She kept walking, pretending she hadn’t noticed, and it turned back to the path ahead. Christine picked up her pace, getting closer to avoid losing it in the maze of the Villa. Still furniture. Still a hologram. One last test.

“So I guess that plan to mark and track you all is dead in the water, going by your reaction to it,” she said. It barely glanced at her, and she relaxed. The mask muffled her voice, so she tried again, louder. “I can see a trapper turning around with one of those fists, and that’s the end of it.”

It ignored her. Christine’s mouth quirked under the mask. “Works for me.”

The harvester seemed to know where it was going, and Christine followed close, taking note of the marks on the walls. After a few twists and turns, it sidled away from her, stooping to reach behind a crate. It came up with a Cosmic knife, holding it by the back of the blade. She watched as it examined the knife, holding it close to its mask as it ran a finger over the flat side and checked the fit of the wooden handle. It seemed to find it acceptable, holding it with the edge away from its body as it continued on.

“You know, don’t you,” she said. “They used to cut the suits off of people with those.” Not even a look this time. They passed one of her markings on the wall, warning of the Cloud ahead. The ghost person didn’t break stride as it entered the red mist, but Christine hesitated, checking the seal of the mask and pulling the goggles up. “Now or never.”

The Cloud tingled and burned on her skin, but there was no sting in her throat or lungs. It cut down visibility to only a few yards, but she saw the harvester moving ahead, heard it breathing. Digging out the can of paint, she followed, leaving a trail of sloppy arrows back to the exit. They passed in and out of the Cloud several times, and she took every opportunity to take a breath of unfiltered air. She made up ground on her dubious guide whenever it paused, picking up a second knife, a strip of metal, and once digging a stack of chips out of a fountain. She shook her head when it scattered them again, near a trio of bear traps. “Clever.”

They re-entered the fog, and her skin burned in earnest. She pulled a stimpak from the back of her belt, pausing as she juggled the can of paint to sink the needle into her arm. Ahead, the echoes of the harvester’s breathing changed. The shadow of an archway was visible through the cloud, filled with bluish light. She settled the pack on her shoulders again, drew one last arrow on the wall before leaning in.

There was a plaza ahead, large enough to hold a fountain. She froze at the sight of the hologram there, waiting to see if it would attack. But it stood sedately blue, a glowing statue of Vera Keyes gazing indifferently ahead. Looking around, she took a breath, making the mask whine.

Ghost people were scattered around the room, sitting hunched on the floor or leaned against the walls. They clustered in loose groups of threes and fours, not quite facing one another, making no sound but the unending wheeze of their breathing. None acknowledged her, and she stepped over their splayed limbs and dropped spears, following the harvester. She counted, taking the room in at a sweep—a dozen, more, and shapes moving behind the courtyard’s arches indicated rooms beyond, filled with them. A chill went up her back, and she stepped faster. The marked harvester had stopped by the fountain, and she drew close. The sense of comfort was entirely false, she knew, but at the moment didn’t care.

It stared up at the hologram, holding out the knives it had collected. It fished under its cowl, retrieving the bit of scrap metal it had found, somehow still shiny despite the corrosive Cloud. She leaned around it, watching it balance the scrap on a pile of trash on the fountain’s edge, atop other bits and pieces that had once gleamed. It looked up again at the impassive starlet for one breath, two, then turned away to find a spot near the wall. She followed, stepping around garbage and debris and perching on a crate. The harvester laid the knives on the floor, aligning them with the tile, then ducked into an alcove. It emerged with another pair of them, held delicately by the backs again. A second trip, with poles and tape. It dropped these, and Christine flinched at the clatter, but the nearest ghost person only shuffled away slightly when it bumped them.

The marked one crouched down over its finds, matching a pole to a knife and wrapping the tape around the handle. Christine leaned in close to watch. The motions were mechanical, and exactly the same for all four. It reminded her of initiates being trained to field-strip their weapons, drilling the actions into muscle memory, far more reliable than trying to think in a fight. With the last one finished, the harvester set them aside, points facing away from the room. It rocked back to lean against the wall, legs splayed out in front of it. She waited for any change, watched the others. Nothing. The harvester just sat, regular wafts of green vapor coming from its mask.

Christine reached out, hesitant, and waved a hand in front of its face. Nothing.

The mask was starting to sound strained, and the smell of the Cloud was creeping in. She stood and picked her way out, much faster than she had come.

\--

“…not worth just producing a new scrubber, the Cloud’s eroded the seals completely.” Christine paused to cough, holding the razor away from her scalp. “I’ve found a lot of useful gear, and a few new vending machine codes, so it’s not a loss. I’ll take some time to sort though it all while I work out solutions.”

She wiped the blade clean before taking another pass, checking her work in the mirror. “I found another of the ghost fountains. Deep in the Cloud, but the hologram emitter’s damaged. Subject One doesn’t go there, just to the first. He— “ she caught herself, “ _it_ keeps to the same routine, stretched out over a few days. Pretty sure they all do. It’s not reliable, but I’m able to tell a few of them apart by the wear on their suits. Ow.” She pressed her thumb on the nick. “They all walk the same routes, day after day. Just like the holograms. Maybe that’s where they learned it.”

She switched the recorder off to finish up without a distraction. Dedication had become habit, since she had joined the Circle She nodded at her reflection as she toweled off her head. Better. Tidy and disciplined, even if it made the scars stand out. Staring at herself, she brushed the ones on her face. Not that there was anyone else there to care…

She turned away. She had a bag to pack.

—

Christine unfolded her map outside the casino. It was a huge, sprawling thing, made of several pages taped together. She’d filled in quite a bit of space, but that didn’t mean she’d studied it all closely. Here and here, if she remembered, were still…

There was a loud clank ahead, down past the fountain plaza. She looked up, the paper crumpling under her fingers. There was movement behind the main gate.

Voices.

 _People_.

She started to run. There they were, three of them in rough armor. They were looking up, cheering and heckling a fourth, smaller figure as it climbed over the Sierra Madre sign.

“Hey! Hey, stop there!” The climber looked at her, then kept going. The three at the gate were drawing weapons as she rounded the fountain. “Stop where you are. This place is too dangerous. Back off down the road, and we can—”

“Bitch, we didn’t go for weeks through hell to get told to leave!” the biggest of them shouted.

“If you’re here, you’ve heard the stories,” she said. “Nothing here but death—”

“Sit your bald ass down. We made it out here—The hell?” He jumped back, a gas bomb falling nearly on top of him.

Christine threw up an arm to block the gout of flame. The climber screamed in alarm, then pain, accompanied by the _thwip_ of throwing spears. She looked up to see their body strike the plaza tiles, still struggling. “Wait—Stop—!”

The plaza flooded with ghost people, swarming over the bodies of of the men. She could only watch as they gathered the remains, carrying off hunks of burned flesh. There was a moan, the one from atop the gate still alive. He was hidden behind a knot of suited bodies, and Christine tried to push them away. “Leave him!” She dove into the mass, dragging the ghost people back. “Leave him alone, he didn’t even—”

They stepped away, encircling her. There was another moan, and the further ones were dragging their victim away. His eyes met Christine’s as he reached out a hand. “Please,” he said feebly, blood spattered across his face. “Help, please. I…” The harvesters took no notice, taking him around the corner and out of sight.

She took a step towards him, and the creatures around her shifted, weapons still at the ready. She expected them to look to one another and mutter, but they only stared, wheezing, those green eyes staring out of their cowls. “You sick bastards. Those were the first people…” They started to leave, one by one, the ones in the back wandering away first. “They didn’t even get inside!” She turned, facing the other half of the crowd, a few still lingering. “What are you going to do to him?” The closest ones were going now, drifting away. She held her hands out, begging. “Tell—show me. Show me. Let me help him…”

They bled back into the Madre, leaving her alone at the fountain. Christine pressed her hands to her face. “Let me speak to them…”

There was a wheeze behind her. A lone harvester had remained, holding a throwing spear. It tipped its head as she stared, dull-eyed. “You don’t…none of you. You’re monsters.” She laughed to herself, low and bitter. “Not forgetting that. Not now.”

The harvester tipped its head the other way as she spoke. She felt a chill. It was _listening_.

Her hand went to her pistol. Useless against the crowd, but a lone one…

It shouldered the spear and faded into the gloom, a white mark visible on its back.

\--

“New filter’s ready, and I’ve packed spares.” Christine jammed them into her pack. “There’s service routes. Sewers. All under the Villa and hotel, and I haven’t had the means until now. I think that’s where they go.”

She slung a holorifle over her shoulder. “I don’t know if I can stop them. There might be hundreds. I doubt this guy’s still alive, but I’m finding out where they take them. Maybe…maybe I can stop it. Somehow. I don’t know.” Christine moved to throw the recorder on the table, then paused. “I’ll be out a while, take notes as I go.” She switched it off, hanging the device from the belt of the security armor.

—

She started near the fountain. If she had been _here_ , they had dragged him around _this_ corner. There was a trail of blood, a rusty smear that faded quickly on the tile. Christine started pacing out the hall, checking the floor and alcoves for any kind of entrance. A narrow door held only electrical equipment. A raised bit of paving was just broken, not a trapdoor. She sighed as she stood, leaving it behind. They were only _called_ ghost people, there was no way they could just vanish…

There was a hollow _clonk_ underfoot, and she kicked aside a drift of trash. A grate. She dropped to her knees, brushing old leaves and paper away from it. Leaning over it, she held her breath to listen. Silence. No running water, no sounds of ghost people, nothing visible as she stared into the dark. It had been covered, hidden. They hadn’t taken him down here. The pit stared back, and she had to lean away, as though it might suck her in. This was futile. It was too late, she should just go back to the hotel.

_And run away?_

Christine got her fingers through it, heaving it up with a grunt and letting it drop to one side with a clang. She stopped to listen again, head up, but there was no telltale wheeze of the Villa’s inhabitants coming to investigate. “Okay.” She checked the straps on her pack and rifle. “Alright.” The recorder was still at her belt. The paint was in an outer pocket, ready to go. She looked down at the dark hole, skin feeling clammy, and swallowed hard. “Stop stalling.” She uncorked a small bottle, struggling not to cough as she downed the acrid stuff in one shot.

She got a foot on the rungs in the sewer access, focusing on the green tinge taking over her vision rather than the ground swallowing her up. She paused at waist height, pulling on the mask, hearing it wheeze and whine as she hyperventilated. Christine clenched her fists on the top rung, forcing herself to slow down.

There was an answering wheeze from down the lane. She nearly lost her balance as she spun to look, and a lank, cowled shape leapt back behind a wall.

Her heart was going to pound its way right out of her chest. She pulled at the collar of the armor’s jumpsuit, feeling it was choking her. She watched the corner a long moment, but the figure was either gone, or staying hidden. “Gone,” she whispered. “It’s gone. Alright. I can do this.” She thought of the man, being dragged off. He might be alive. Might. If he was, he was relying on _her_ to get him out.

One rung. Another. The rim of the access was at eye hight. One more. She had a purpose, now. Duty to this stranger, and anyone else who wandered into this silent, red-tinged hell. She bit down on a whimper as her foot met empty air, and made herself keep going, until she hung by her arms, stretching her foot down. Her boot scraped on something hard, and she took a long breath, before letting go.

She fell to her knees on the floor of the sewer, arms wrapped around herself. Counting her breaths to keep them slow, she forced her hands out to the sides, feeling. She couldn’t touch the walls. They weren’t drawing in closer. She opened her eyes, looking around. The tunnel was just wider than her armspan, the bricks coated with dirt and Cloud residue. She stood, legs shaking. She could still reach the rungs of the access if she stretched, could still escape.

Christine nodded to herself. “It’s okay.” Pulling out the can of paint, she rubbed a bit of brick clean, painting an arrow pointing up. “Right.” It was bright, almost glowing in the effect of the Ghost Sight. “Right. I have this.” She pulled the holorifle down on its strap, easier to reach. Her breathing echoed in the tunnel, making it sound like there were…

She looked up. A shadow darted away from the access.

“What? Going to stop me?” she called. There was no movement, no sound. Her voice was muffled under the mask, but the anger in it fed back into her, making her bare her teeth. “Try it, freak. I know how your kind die.”

No answer, not that she expected one. She gripped the rifle tight and set off down the tunnel.

\--

“…no signs of life. A couple maintenance holograms, but that’s it. They don’t leave marks or trails, even up above. Barely even any footprints. Not even traps, here.” The recorder was a welcome distraction, now. She paused at an intersection, trying to order her thoughts. “They don’t expect visitors. This is…this is their turf.” She turned right again, dragging her fingers on the wall. “I don’t belong down here.”

Christine hung the recorder back on her belt. There were echoes from time to time, scuffs and sighs, their origin lost in the many angles of the tunnels. Either the ghost people were avoiding her, or they were all out hunting. She shuddered. Maybe she would have to find where they took their victims by following screams…

The Cloud was pervasive here, getting through the fabric of her jumpsuit to make her skin burn. Before long, she could smell it, the sound of her respirator changing as the filters broke down. She was going through her stimpaks fast as it got harder to draw breath, and she felt the blood thudding through her head. Her hands shook as she marked her direction on the wall. She blinked. The paint had lost its luminous quality, and the darkness down the corridor thicker. “It’s okay,” she whispered, the waste of precious air worth the tiny measure of comfort. Trying to slow her movements, she reached into her pack for another dose of Ghost Sight. The bottle slid away from her shaking hand, and she lunged for it, nearly bursting the bag at the seams. Fumbling for the cork, it slipped from her hands.

There was a _crack_ as it struck the ground. She fell to her knees, feeling for it. Her fingers ran over the broken edges of the bottle, and a little sob escaped her, a fist closing inside her chest. It was alright, it was fine, she had another bottle, she just had to…

Christine straightened, pulling the strap around. She looked up as she did, and felt her lips draw back with fear. A pair of glowing eyes were staring at her in the dark. _Ghost person. Just a ghost person_ , she thought, groping for the holorifle. _It won’t attack. They think you’re a hologram_. Something was clawing in the back of her mind, some reptile part of her brain screaming _predator, predator,_ seeing those eyes staring down as she knelt, helpless, in the dirt. “I—it’s…just a…”

The eyes started drifting closer.

Something in her snapped, and she was up, on her feet and leaping blindly down the tunnel. The mask on her face was clinging, smothering, and she ripped it free, coughing and choking as the Cloud tore at her throat. It tasted like blood on her tongue, or she had bitten herself in her panic, and she put her head down and charged, not caring where her feet led her she wasn’t moving, not fast enough she had to _run_. The walls were coming down, reaching in to hold her tight and crush the air out of her, she was going to die in the dark alone and hurting and her throat the saws in her throat torn and bleeding choking on blood—

She ran full-on into a wall and bounced off, reeling, gagging and gasping. _Light_ there was light ahead she turned to it, senses coming back to hear herself crying out, wordless sounds of some trapped animal. There was another grate set against the wall, and she leapt to reach it. Her fingers didn’t even brush it, and there were no rungs, no handholds. She clawed at the wall, trying to get a grip, nails starting to peel up even under her gloves. The pain was sharp, real, and she slumped against the wall, the strength going out of her legs. There was sky above her. She slid to the floor, pressing her hands against her face. “It’s alright. I’m fine. I’m fine. It’s okay…”

Exhaustion overtook panic, and her trembling slowed. Christine made herself look up, taking stock of where she was. A dead-end, trash and debris built up in the corners, with no markings on the walls. She looked up through the grate, but there was only sky, no buildings or landmarks. She laughed, small and sour, her voice rasping. “I’m not helping anyone, am I?”

_Scrape, scuff. Wheeze._

She lowered her eyes, fear paralyzing any larger movement. A harvester was crouched in the narrowest point of the tunnel, throwing spear propped against its shoulder. It tipped its head as she stared at it.

“Well,” she said, swallowing. Her fingers inched towards the rifle. “I guess I followed _you_ around long enough.”

Its head jerked the other way. Its breath quickened, and it crept forwards, staying low, using the butt of the spear for support. Christine pushed herself up and clutched the rifle hard, ready to get her feet under her and fight. It— _her_ harvester, she was sure, without even seeing its back—paused, then reached up. Jerkily, hesitantly, its eyes never leaving her, it felt under its cowl.

Christine watched, eyes wide, as it set a sliver of shiny metal at her feet.


	2. Chapter 2

It stared up at her, hands moving restlessly on the shaft of the spear. “You…” Christine said, glancing between the metal and the mask, “you think I’m _her_. My voice.”

The ghost person shuffled on the spot, breathing speeding up into excited pants. She recoiled, standing with a hand on the wall to steady herself. It stayed where it was. “That’s…Oh, this isn’t right.” Trying not to agitate it, she found the spare mask in her bag. It followed the movement, head jerking and tipping in birdlike motions. “This is…no.” She put the mask on, pulling the straps tight. “I don’t care what kind of sick crush you have on Vera…”

It leaned away, tensing. “What?” Her voice was flat and muffled by the plastic. “Don’t like it? That’s your problem. I can’t—hey!”

The harvester lunged, dragging at the straps, glowing eyes inches from hers. She drew back and kicked hard at its chest, sending it sprawling. Christine brought up the holorifle, threatening. It gathered itself in a single motion, crouching with that spear ready. Slowly, she reached up, pulling the mask loose. “Here’s how this is going to go,” she said. The point of the spear lowered. She pointed at the grate and the sky beyond. It didn’t look up, gaze fixed on her. “I want to go up there,” she said and took a deep breath. She stepped towards the main tunnel and pressed the mask back on. “I can’t talk to you down here. Not like you want.” It shook itself like a dog, dropping back into a crouch.

Back into the light of the grate, point. “I have to be up there. I can breathe up there.” The tunnel, and the mask. “Not here.”

It was still crouched and coiled tight, but the butt of the spear was on the ground. There was a growl in the next breath, and it swept up the bit of metal, throwing it at her boots. She pressed her lips tight and pointed to the grate.

It looked at her hand, then her. Bit by bit, it turned further, staring at the grate, then back to her. She nodded. The harvester lurched over, standing under the grate and looking up through it.

Christine sighed. Ghost people were bright enough to make weapons, set traps and hunt cooperatively, but _pointing_ baffled them. She resettled the pack on her back and headed towards the tunnel. There was a scuffling behind her, and she felt the vapor from its mask on the back of her neck. _”No!_ Ugh…” She spun and backed away, wiping at her neck, then the sweat on her brow. It was standing behind her, head cocked, spear shouldered. She could almost hear the walls crumbling around her, the dark a palpable thing. “Not…so close. Not here.”

It only stared. She rolled her eyes and downed her last Ghost Sight before trying to retrace her steps. Here and there, she could see where debris had been disturbed, but there was no way to tell if it had been by her mad dash or not. Her can of paint had lost its lid, trickling down her leg, and she was forced to leave a trail of smudged fingerprints in her wake. All the while, the harvester was at her back, shuffling and wheezing. Every time she glanced back, it was just out of arm’s reach, staring at her. “You wouldn’t know the way out?” she asked, glad to break the silence.

A tilt of its head. It looked away, drifting towards a side-passage. Hope rose up, and was trampled back down as it pawed at a white smear on the wall, still damp. She put her hands to her head. Trying to convince herself the trembling was her imagination, she struck off again, and the ghost person hurried to keep up.

After a few random turns, the light in her vision began to fade. The dark made her throat tight, the tunnels seem to narrow. Her footsteps grew faster, erratic, until she forced herself to slow. Still, the harvester’s labored breath fell back, and she turned. Christine could only make out its eyes in the gloom. “What now?” It wavered, head tilting. She took a step towards it, and the ghost person stepped away. Following, her hands brushed a corner. A crossroads…could it…?

It turned to look back at her at intervals, mask impassive but its motions quick and darting, eager. She broke into a run three corners later, shoving past it. Light streamed from a gap in the ceiling, and she grasped for the rungs. The harvester huffed noisily at her, passing her to wait at the next crossing. “Not here?” No sound. She gave the grate above a longing look. She could find her way back to the casino on her own, couldn’t she? She had her map…covered in paint…

She swallowed hard and let go. The harvester shuffled ahead. It led her past two other accesses before leaping up a third, landing halfway up the ladder. An arrow was drawn next to it, pointing upwards. She grunted as she mantled the first rungs, and managed to hook one with her boot. The harvester stared down at her as she climbed, waiting until she was almost head-to-head before pulling away.

She sat on the edge of the hole, pulling the mask off to take deep, unhindered breaths. Turning her eyes up, the sky was darkening, but seeing it at all took a weight off of her. Exhaustion replaced it, and Christine had to roll to all fours before pushing up to her feet. Her guide sidestepped, blocking her path. It sank into a crouch, dropping the metal shard on the tile and looking up at her under the edge of its hood.

“Fair enough.” She cleared her throat, still raw from the Cloud. “Um…” It was stock-still, waiting. She rubbed at where the edge of the mask had dug in on her cheek. When was the last time she had spoken like this? Had someone to _listen?_ “Thank you, for leading me out.” It huffed once, but didn’t move. “My name is Christine Royce. I am…was…a Knight with the Circle of Steel. Now I’m…” She lifted her arms and let them fall at her sides. “I’m here. Trying to keep people out. Failing.”

A yawn cut of anything else. “I’m also about to fall over. Thank you.” She bent to pick up the bit of metal. “But I need to go rest.”

She stepped around it, headed toward the casino. There was no shuffling sound, no wheeze of it following. When she looked back, it was gone.

\--

“He seems to be the only one who’s made the link between Keyes and I. There’s only a couple others who leave offerings at the fountains, and they don’t acknowledge me.” Christine balanced the recorder on the cushy arm of the chair, tucking her legs up to rest a bowl of Intsa-Mash on them. A shower, a few stimpaks, and a change of clothes later, she was feeling much less shaky. She took a bite, thinking. “The whole thing might be a fluke. It _was_ very helpful, but I can’t count on it happening again. I don’t think there’s a chance for meaningful communication, at all. Their behavior is too ritualized, and they’ve spent two hundred years without speaking.

“I can try and negotiate again, to make sure. I have an experiment in mind. But I’m staying armed. He did assault me briefly when I put the mask on, and he might get violent again if I don’t act as he wants me to. _It_ wants me to.” She rubbed at her forehead. “Other thoughts, um…I have to check the paths leading to the Madre. If the last group left a trail, I need to get rid of it, and destroy any new ways in.” She yawned, and started to cough. “Tomorrow.”  
—  
It wasn’t on its usual routes. Christine frowned, taking another turn through the ruined residential area. The other ghost people had run like clockwork, nearly wearing grooves in the streets. Even when an intruder forced them out, they resumed their rounds almost without a beat. To be completely missing…?

She shook her head, heading for the city’s outer walls. There were a handful of small doors, crew accesses and truck bays across the Madre’s grounds, tightly locked and well-hidden to keep up the sense of security. Christine took a delivery entrance alongside a cafe, hidden behind a bend. Out of her way, but easier than dealing with the main gate and the crowd it attracted when it was operated. The thought of the ghost people, clustered around, staring at her made her skin creep

Outside of the villa, the rarefied Cloud grew thinner still, and she caught herself staring at the horizon as she walked through the desert. There were no shadows to indicate buildings, no motion in any direction. Easy to believe she was the only person left in the world. Easy to believe there was no one who would wonder what had happened to her, that missed her, that would grieve. Her feet took her to a stack of stones, a scuffing trail in the dirt beside. It would be just as easy to follow it, back to civilization, somewhere she could breathe without the tang of sulfur and metal, where there were actual people. She looked over her shoulder. The buildings of the Sierra Madre were nearly swallowed up by a dip in the land and the bloody Cloud, an ugly wheal on the landscape.

It would be so easy, walking away. Let the holograms and ghost people deal with intruders, drag them off into the dark…

She stooped, trowing the rocks at random into the desert, sweeping the path away with a boot, wrapped in rags to hide her own tracks. She turned, keeping the city on her left. Feet leaden, she walked, watching for footprints and signs of travel. She had a duty.  
—  
Christine’s feet only dragged more on the long, dark walk back to the casino. Her hands were scraped and bruised from breaking up cairns and disrupting paths, dust coating her from head to toe. She ached in her bones, wanting nothing more than to sleep and wake up back in Lost Hills, and tell her strange dream to Ve—

She pressed a hand to her chest. No. She could hold out, so long as she didn’t think of that name.

The Villa walls seemed to loom over her after being out in the open air. She stopped under the arcade leading to the casino’s entrance, knowing it would be worse inside. She sighed, a hand on the door. There was an answering sound behind her, and she started and spun. Her harvester, her guide, Subject One, was close enough to touch.

“Oh, no. I don’t have the patience…to…” She narrowed her eyes. “You were waiting?” A wheeze and quizzical tilt. “So you know _my_ routine…Can’t say I have the energy to be disturbed.” It had a spear in one hand, and an arm held to its chest. She felt behind her for the door. Whatever it was holding was hidden under its perpetual slouch, and her mind flashed back to the men at the gate, reduced to pulp and carried off in pieces. She shook her head at it, finding the door handle and trying to open it quietly.

With a jerk, it threw the arm out wide. Christine shied back, bright bits of metal crashing to the ground, some bouncing and rolling off. The harvester raked loose a few that had tangled in its cowl and sat back on its haunches, breathing in those eager little gasps.

“You…huh.” It looked so proud, puffed up and sitting over its pile of shiny garbage. Something like a grin pulled at her face. “You spent all day…?” She snorted, unable to hold it in. The creature drew back, examining her as the laughter grew. It tipped its head the other way like some sort of gruesome dog. Christine held her sides, putting a hand over her mouth and biting a finger. “It’s not—not funny,” she choked. She wiped at her eyes, making herself take a deep breath. “It’s not. No. No, I’m just losing my mind.”

It was rocking from foot to foot, gripping the haft of the spear. “Alright. You want me to talk?” Another giggle welled up, and she bit it down, knowing the next one might not stop. She knelt, keeping the drift of offerings between them. “Let’s talk.

“I have enough scrap metal for a while,” Christine said. The understatement made her mouth twitch. “So now I need more of these. I’m having trouble finding them.” She reached into her pocket and set a fission battery in front of her.

The ghost person kept staring at her, calmer, but not acknowledging the battery. “I need more, to make more chips for the vending machines.” She picked it up and set it down again, letting it clack loudly on the tiles. Its head bobbed at the noise, but that alien face was still fixed on her. “So much for that one,” she muttered, then, “here.”

She picked it up and held it out. It stared, blank, and she leaned in until that green vapor nearly touched her hand. She frowned and set the battery in front of it. It shifted its weight away, staring down and cocking its head. She waited, and it looked back up at her.

Christine shook her head and started gathering the metal scraps into her bag. The harvester stayed fixed on the spot as she stood to grab the ones that had rolled away. “Don’t help or anything,” she told it, looking over her shoulder. It was nudging the battery with the butt of the spear. She tucked the last piece in her pack and turned to the doors. It surged up, and the wheezing picked up into a growl. “You won’t hurt me,” she said, facing it. “I’ve watched you, all of you. You throw spears at the other holograms, but never the ones that look like Keyes.” They also kept to their routes, didn’t look at her, didn’t listen… “Normally, anyway.”

It quieted, tilted its head at her voice. She smiled despite herself, sadly. “That’s all you want,” she said. “Just someone to talk to you. Doesn’t even matter what I’m saying, does it?”

Silence, as always. It seemed content to just watch her and listen, leaning on that spear. Glancing down, the fission battery was missing, but its free hand was curled around something heavy. “Do you have it?” she asked, then shook her head at herself. “Never mind.” They stared at one another; her, the only human in miles, and it, one of a hundred anonymous monsters. “I guess there’s one more thing,” she said, fishing in her pack for a fresh tin of paint. “I’m getting tired of twisting around to look at your backs. I want to be able to spot you more quickly.”

She dipped her thumb in the paint and reached out, slow, trying not to alarm it. It didn’t jerk away until she brushed back its hood, and Christine froze, waiting for it to settle. When it stilled, she pressed the pad of her thumb on the brow of its mask, leaving a daub of white.

The harvester blew loudly, once, shaking itself like a dog as it stepped away. It dropped the battery and spear, raising its hands to paw at its mask. It quartered every inch of it, unable to feel through the hard the surface, fingers scraping faintly. She found herself holding her breath, and made herself exhale. At last, it felt above its eyes, the sound of plastic-on-plastic changing. The paint smeared, and it held out its hand before its eyes, examining a fingertip. It looked from it to her, breathing breaking up, uneven, uncertain.

Christine gave it a little nod, stepping back towards the doors. “Okay. That’s enough.” It shuffled after. “I’m leaving. I don’t want you following me.”

It coiled away, perhaps picking up on her tone. Hand still raised, it leaned towards her. She stood her ground with a hand on the plasma pistol. She could smell it as it scuffed a half-step closer, a chemical odor that made her nose wrinkle. Twisting nearly sideways to look up at her as it reached, it seemed reluctant to get any nearer. Its hand was curling and clenching in agitation, and she held her breath, not daring to flinch.

The touch on her forehead was feather-light, and by the time it registered the harvester had leapt away, tossing its head and stamping its feet. With a lurch, it vanished into the maze-like Villa below.  
—  
Christine sat in her suite, one finger on the recorder button. “Today, I…” she trailed off. Stopping the tape, she rewound it to start again. There was no mark on her skin, she knew, the first thing she had checked upon reaching her suite. She still couldn’t shake the feeling, and tried once more to rub it away. Hunting for words, she took a breath and started the tape. “I…think the situation with this particular harvester, Subject One, has gotten out of hand. It’s gotten too bold, and I’ve gotten too comfortable with the ghost people as a whole. It touched me. I let it. I’m fairly sure it was only mimicking me, like they do the other holograms, but I don’t think I’ll be able to control it if its behavior continues to change.”

She stopped the recorder, considered winding it back again. Instead she licked her lips and clicked it back on. “If others start acting as it does, I could be in over my head. There’s no guarantee they’ll be as docile.

“I don’t have much choice.” She looked down at the pistol at the table. “Next time it finds me, I need to put it down.”

\--

Christine squared her shoulders as she entered the lobby, but the only sound was the echo of her own footsteps. She shouldered her holorifle as she opened the outer door, expecting the worst. Instead, the door stuck on something, and she had to brace her feet and shove to get it open. It scraped and rattled as she did, and Christine paused, looking down at a pile of trash it had swept aside. “Huh.” Turning some of it over with a foot, she realized it was a mix of brick and wood and crumpled cans, each the approximate size and shape of a fission battery. “Almost.” She started to smile, but it soured quickly.

It had changed too much. There was no way it would be on its normal rounds, not anymore. But it would more than likely come back, bringing her more gifts. She could stay here, wait for it to come to her…

She shook her head and turned for the Villa. She had started this, and it was on her to end it.  
—  
There was a dead seeker in Salida del Sol, one of its legs severed. Christine frowned down at it, taking in the spatters of sickly, greenish ghost person blood across the tiles. Something rattled away from her boot as she paced off the area, looking for clues, and she stooped to pick up a spent shotgun shell. She barked a short laugh. “And I thought I’d be alone out here. Five…no, six in two weeks…”

Searching further, she spotted a bootprint in the blood headed further east, deeper into Salida del Sol. Traps were sprung with no sign of anyone being caught, and trash bins and other containers had been turned over and looted. A dark shape in the Cloud resolved into a trapper as she approached, splayed on the ground. It gurgled as she passed, rolling to its feet fast enough to make her start. She was gaining on the intruder, if it had just recovered.

Sure enough, she heard the blast of a shotgun somewhere ahead, and she tailed the trapper, already homed in on the noise. It charged up a set of stairs, and she let it get ahead. The stairs led up into a courtyard, the ground strewn with corpses, a figure standing at its center. The man turned as the trapper neared, breathing hard, his leather armor scarred and weathered. The ghost person didn’t flinch as a round took it full in the chest, closing in to swing with that vicious bear trap fist. The man dodged, aiming upward to cleanly take off the trapper’s head. He cast around for further threats as it collapsed, and did a double take on spotting her. He opened his mouth to speak.

There was a gurgle behind him, and one of the corpses rose. The harvester lunged, sinking its spear deep into the man’s back. He fell, and the creature dragged the weapon free, driving it once, twice more into his body before looking up at her and giving a quick, excited huff. She shut her eyes and leaned against the wall. Bright against the shadow of its cowl, there was a white mark on its mask.

Wheezes and grunts gradually filled the courtyard, the downed ghost people recovering one by one. Christine watched, dull-eyed as they started to drag away the remains of their kin, a few of them converging on the intruder’s body. The harvester looked between her and it, then reached down to grab the man’s arm, pulling it towards her. The rest of the ghost people froze, and a second, bigger harvester grabbed a leg and yanked it towards the courtyard’s other exit.

Already backing down the stairs, Christine stopped. The others were standing there, motionless, watching the two harvesters. The marked one tugged the corpse’s arm again, and the rest piled on, trying to drag the body away. It braced its feet and twisted, and she cringed. The limb gave a sickening _pop_ as the shoulder joint pulled loose, followed by a squelching tear. The ghost person staggered backwards, dropping its grisly prize on the top of the stairs, nearly level with her eyes. Breathing in those eager little gasps, it hunkered down to roll the arm, showing the Pip-Boy there, screen glowing bright.

Christine tasted bile in the back of her throat. It leaned towards her, blood still leaking from holes in its suit, waiting.

Behind it, the other ghost people had stopped. They shifted, tense, hands on weapons. Too many. Too many for her, holorifle or not.

She gave it one last look, shook her head at the harvester, and turned to leave.

Christine’s neck prickled at the growl behind her, low and rolling. She spun, and something struck her chest-high, knocking her down the last few steps. Her head snapped back against the ground, and she saw stars as she fought to right herself. A chemical odor made her cough and gag, and harsh breathing filled her ears. She reached for the holorifle as her vision cleared, in time to see the harvester lunge again.

She got a hand around its throat, the flesh under the suit soft and yielding, trying to keep it at arm’s length. The other fought to keep it from getting hold of her as they grappled, but with a grunt it ducked down and bulled into her, throwing her back against the stairs. Head spinning, Christine grabbed at them, trying to stop her slide, but there was no further attack. The ghost person hunched itself at the bottom of the steps, swinging from side to side with agitation, its eyes never leaving her.

She felt the back of her head, hand coming away bloody. “So this—” she stared, then clenched her teeth. It wanted her to talk. She pushed herself up onto the next step, sitting more comfortably as she pressed on the wound. The harvester snorted, tilting its head. She shook her head, and regretted it immediately, squeezing her eyes shut. It stepped nearer. “No.”

It leapt past her, landing further up the stairs. She turned. The far side of the courtyard was blotted out by a wall of suited bodies, bristling with spears and knives. The marked one looked back at her, then bent to grab the dead man’s arm. With a wrench, it tore the Pip-Boy from the limb, scraping flesh from bone. She cringed at the sound, sidling away down the stairs. The ghost person in the front of the group stiffened, wheezing at her as it raised a spear.

Her harvester ripped the weapon out of its hands. The other ghost people tensed, attention shifting away from her, and Christine kept backing towards the Villa. A trapper caught the motion and tried to press past, fist raised. Her harvester rounded on it, weapon readied. She ran before the spear landed.

More ghost people were approaching behind her. They hadn’t seen the fight, and passed her without a glance. She dug out a stimpak as she ran, slowing only long enough to jab it into the back of her neck. The world stopped spinning a little at a time, and she broke into a sprint. She didn’t have long, not with the size of the crowd and only one person holding them off. They were faster than her, knew routes through sewers and roofs that might let them get—

— _ahead._ A seeker blocked her path, spear raised. The first shot went wide, but the second took the ghost person’s arm from its body. A throwing spear skittered off the tiles beside her, and she turned, nearly losing her footing. There were marks on the walls here, leading her back to the casino—or should. She shook her head and swore at them. Unable to focus, the letters were nothing more than unintelligible scrawls. She caught glimpses of it between the rooftops, and trusted to dead reckoning as she ran, leaping over tripwires and skirting bear traps. The Cloud ate at her, sacrificing safety for being able to take a full breath, leaving her throat raw and eyes running. She passed more ghost people, some turning to watch her, but didn’t watch to see if they would pursue.

She staggered to a halt, coughing. Her lungs burned with exertion and poisons, and she leaned against a wall, trying to recover. There were no sounds of them following, no eerie scrapes or wheezes coming from the nearby lanes. “Not like this,” she said to herself, and hitched the rifle higher. She forced herself back up to a jog, the area more familiar. Maybe this could blow over. Maybe a couple days hiding in the suite, and they would think she escaped…

But then what? Kill every last one of them? Win them all over, like the harvester? No, that was a fluke, and one that she had let go too long. It had…

It had probably gotten torn apart on her behalf.

Christine gritted her teeth. He hadn’t been human, not anym—

There was a metallic _snap_ and she was jerked to a halt. The pain followed, and Christine fell to a knee, biting down a scream. It died into a hiss of, “Stupid, stupid.” She worked her fingers between the trap’s jaws. “Stupid—” Christine grunted as she pried at the bear trap, fingers slipping on her blood. She tried to get a better grip. “Months, and now—” There was a scuffing sound behind her, and her heart slammed in her chest. She fumbled at the trap, panting. “Not like this.”

She looked over her shoulder. She heard the trapper before she saw it, long, grating breaths that made her sweat grow cold. It didn’t matter if it had seen the fight in the courtyard, not now, stuck like any other person to wander in to the Sierra Madre. She tried to bring the holorifle up, unable to steady it with one hand, couldn’t to twist far enough with her leg pinned. The ghost person kept lurching along, unhurried, uncaring green eyes staring out of its mask. It wouldn’t kill her. She laughed, breathless and bitter. Hadn’t she always wanted to find where they took their victims?

More ghost people were following, breaths echoing ahead of them. Christine could feel the walls around her, the earth pressing down above as they dragged her below. “Not like this.” The trapper was only a few steps away, and she twisted further, wrenching her leg as she tried to get an angle. Even if she had to ram the rifle down the thing’s throat, she wasn’t going to—

The ghost person was knocked off its feet, a smaller, leaner shape tackling it from the side. They landed in a flailing pile of limbs, a knife flashing between them. The ones following behind hesitated at the sight. Christine turned away, getting her hands between the jaws of the trap, adrenaline giving her the strength for one massive heave. She lunged up, crying out as she put weight on her leg, but forcing herself to run.

\--

“…know that it’s safe to go down yet.” Christine winced as she paced. The Auto-Doc had done well enough, but she would be sore a while longer. “Not much for windows up here, and I don’t have any kind of monitor, but I want to know if he—it…” She stopped. “Damn it, what does it matter?”

She pulled the chair away from her work table, sitting with her a hand to her head. The silence of the suite made her ears ring, and she tapped her fingers on the recorder. “It took weeks before I could travel safely,” she said into it, anything to distract herself. “It’s been less than a day. There’s always work to do on the vending machines, or…I don’t know. Something.” She looked down at the device, still hissing softly as it picked up her words. Her eye fell on a stack of the tapes, sitting in the locker above the holorifle, filled and collecting dust. Something in her felt empty. “…I never listen to these.”

 _Click._ Christine tossed it aside. She put her face in her hands as it rattled away.

She had chosen to stay here. Chosen to keep the Madre safe from looters and thieves, or people like Elijah. Chosen to be alone. The task wouldn’t end because she grew tired of it, the legend of the City of the Dead would still compel treasure hunters to seek it out. Stories like that would be told all her lifetime, longer…

Taking a deep breath, she drew herself up straight, composed. She couldn’t do her duty hiding up here. She had to know, one way or the other. Picking up her pack, she strode towards the exit.

The elevator was a familiar obstacle now, and she shut her eyes and counted her breaths until it slowed. When the doors opened, she stood still, listening. Nothing. There was no horde waiting for her. It was almost completely quiet, except…

Christine leaned out. A figure was curled up against a pillar, wheezing slowly. Something clanked against her boot as she stepped out, and she bent to pick up the bloodied Pip-Boy.

The harvester raised its head at the sound. A hose had been pulled free of its mask, dripping greenish fluid down its front, and it gurgled as she knelt in front of it. “They did a number on you,” she said, taking in the damage. It was covered in dried blood from itself and others, and one of the lenses of its mask was cracked. She reached out to plug the hose back in. “Surprised you made it.” Its hood was ragged and disheveled, and she tugged it back in order before pressing a hand on its shoulder. “They wouldn’t have attacked if you hadn’t made a scene, though. We’ll work on that. I can’t have you getting grabby every time I walk away.”

It huffed gently, trying to look at her hand. “Not very grateful of me, I know. Thank you. I wouldn’t have gotten out of there without help.” She gave it a pat and sat back, wiping blood off the Pip-Boy’s screen. “This will be useful, too. Be nice if you hadn’t…” _killed him_ , and she looked down. The words on the screen may as well have been in Chinese. She frowned at it, and enough of them resolved to pull up the map. The stranger’s path to the Sierra Madre glowed up at her, crisp and clear and all too direct. “But we have to, don’t we? No one who gets in here can be allowed to leave. Not the sort of person who would seek it out.”

It had no comment, sitting patiently. “We’ll have to figure out the situation with the rest of you, too. But that can wait.” She stood. “I think I can get your suit patched, I’ve got supplies upstairs.” It wheezed again, climbing to its feet as she stepped away, but lingering near the pillar. She stopped outside the elevator and raised an eyebrow. “Come on. It won’t do much good for you to stay down here.”

It wavered. She beckoned for it to follow. “I don’t have to hold your hand, do I?” The harvester shook itself and shuffled after her. Christine smiled. He wasn’t much of a talker, but she could hardly judge. She pressed the button for her suite as it settled beside her. “Let’s go. There’s still a lot to get done in this place.”

The harvester sighed, almost in agreement.


End file.
